


Of Memories and Mourning

by slugtastic



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bilbo misses the adventure, Fluff, M/M, Spoilers for BOTFA, adrenaline rushes or something, in which Bilbo isn't over Thorin's death and neither am I, smooches, there are also spoilers in these tags so read at your own risk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 20:15:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3147185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slugtastic/pseuds/slugtastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short trip down memory lane, and he was there again.</p><p>~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~</p><p>It's been a while since he returned from Erebor, and Bilbo's just getting used to living a quiet life alone in Bag End again, when he hears a knock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Memories and Mourning

**Author's Note:**

> Woo! My first Hobbit fic. Also my first Bagginshield/Thilbo fic, as it would obviously be.  
> It's also the first time that I've written anything in over a year, so I'd love to get any kind of feedback anyone has to offer!
> 
> This is based on this post (http://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/105566155098) by Kaciart on tumblr.  
> You can find me here - oakenshieldz.tumblr.com

How long had he been back in Bag End?

A week?

A month?

More?

Everything was muddy and grey and seeping together, turning into a mush inside his brain. Nothing from the journey, of course. No, that was all vivid. Crisp and clear, just like he was still living it. For a brief few seconds, every time he would sit and think about the adventure, he would swear that he was. He often would sit down in his armchair by the fire- his favorite armchair, mind, one of the _many_ items he'd had to buy back after his long travels, thanks to those Sackville-Bagginses auctioning off all of his things, damn them- and allow himself to have the tiniest bit of an adrenaline rush. Something to keep him feeling alive, to keep him from losing himself in the comfortable mundanity of Hobbiton.

He would sometimes remember back to when he'd encountered the creature Gollum in the caves, and beating him in a battle of wits. Fearing that he may actually lose, that he may find himself becoming this thing's next meal- fortunately for him, his dear old father Bungo Baggins had kept many a book on riddles in the study, and Bilbo had loved reading them and testing himself and having others test him on his mental prowess when he was a boy. He'd gotten quite good at it by the time he was 20 or so, and thanked his lucky stars that young Bilbo had taken such a fierce interest in the art of riddles all those years ago.  
Another memory, was finding The Ring, and experiencing what it could do for the first time. Being suddenly submerged into a colorless world, with sounds rushing past his ears like what would happen if you were walking around on a particularly windy and unpleasant day, with quite a few people talking loudly right next to you, but in a tongue that you couldn't quite understand. When he'd realized that Gollum had lost sight of him once he'd stepped into this Other World, simply by placing the found ring upon his finger- oh, what a delight that had been!  
Running from the Orcs on the way to Beorn's was one that still caused his hair to stand up on end. They had been in such very real danger at that moment, the sounds of Wargs snarling and barking much less than a League behind them. Whenever this thought would pass his mind, he'd slip away from the surge of excitement, and would instead laugh, once again recounting the way Bombur had (somehow!) managed to pass all of them up in their mad dash for the cottage.  
Potentially one of his least favorite memories- and yet, somehow, one that popped up in his head more often than he would like, such a disturbed Hobbit he'd become, was when they were deep within the Mirkwood forest. Somehow, he could not remember the details, they'd lost the path, and whilst he'd climbed his way up to the canopy to get a better look at where they were going, the Dwarves- bunch of blundering idiots, he often thought- had managed to get themselves captured by a nest of giant man-eating (or Dwarf-eating, or Hobbit or Elf or Orc, Bilbo supposed they weren't all that picky) spiders.  
It was then, he fondly remembered, every time looking over to Belladonna's glory box and letting out a somewhat wistful sigh, that Sting had been named. Sometimes he would take it out and wave it around, admiring the way it gleamed in the light and occasionally imagining that he was fighting off great beasts like he used to. One time, he'd come to his wits just in time to see who he was fairly certain was Hilda Sackville peeping in through his window. The next time he'd run out to the grocer, a few of the folk she was known to hang around were giving him the most terrible of looks, which only served to solidify his thought that seeing her hadn't been an imagination. He hadn't been bothered, though. Ever since the adventure, he'd lost the ability to care in gossip and knowing the goings-on around The Shire- very un-Hobbit like indeed!  
Perhaps his favorite memory of all was being mere feet from Smaug. A tiny creature like Bilbo had never dreamed of seeing a beast so large, much less nearly being eaten by him! Snatching the Arkenstone from right under the terrible brute's nose, making an escape at the last second- one of his prouder moments, really. If he were ever to have children, though that was doubtful since no one wanted to marry into his line of the Baggins family after the whole disappearing for more than a year thing, wasn't at all tasteful for a Hobbit to be doing such unexpected and nasty things, but _if_ by some chance he _were_ to find himself caring for a child in the future, that would make a wonderful bedtime story, he'd decided.

In truth, Bilbo Baggins missed the journey. He missed waking up in the middle of the night to Bombur's snoring, to Dwalin's foot in his face. He missed the loud vulgarity of the group of dwarves, missed the songs they would sing and the tales they would tell. Sometimes, he'd think back on those times, too, and he'd wish that he was back whenever that was, back among the truest and kindest and most loyal friends he'd ever known, and having an adventure that deserved to have stories written about it.

Some thoughts were more painful than others, though.

Sometimes he would cry himself to sleep, chest aching and throat hoarse from the sobs that wracked his body. His mind would wander, usually at night, when he sat down after Supper and watched the fire flickering out to nothingness, and he would remember the first day that he'd met The Company. The halls had filled with music, laughter, and in truth, he'd been an odd combination of confused, terrified, and livid. It had been something of an out-of-body experience, but he wouldn't have traded it for the world.  
He certainly wouldn't have traded it for this- now the rooms were empty. There were no boots tracking mud from his entryway back to his dining area, there wasn't a seemingly endless amount of cloaks hanging in his front hall, his pantry wasn't being stripped bare, there weren't any dwarves tossing his dishes about and laughing at his misery- there was no laughter at all. No music.  
Just him.  
Alone.  
He would recall seeing Thorin gripped in the clutches of Dragon Sickness, greed tearing away at him and wearing him down day by day. He lacked faith in himself, lacked trust in his kin- he'd threatened to kill Dwalin, and all Bilbo could do was sit back and watch helplessly as he watched the Dwarf King cracking under the disease that plagued him.

But perhaps the worst thing that plagued his memories was what had happened at the end of the battle. Up atop the frozen waterfall at Ravenhill, with Thorin. Everything that was said, everything that he'd wanted to say but couldn't. Whenever these thoughts wriggled their way into his mind, he would find himself gripped by what he could only describe as an attack of panic, of agony, of misery.  
He had loved Thorin Oakenshield. And, though he had never outright said it, he'd had reason to believe that Thorin had felt the same. Mostly in part due to his asking Balin what certain things meant- the Mythril shirt, just for an example. According to Balin, that was something that in their culture would have been deemed an act of courtship. Giving Bilbo one of the most prized heirlooms of his people? That wasn't an action merely between King and Consort. And it was true, he'd realized after Balin had said it, that it was only when Thorin was talking to the halfling that he acted like himself again. Still suspicious of his kin, but not nearly as thoroughly gripped by the Dragon Sickness as he had been in those last terrible days.  
One of Bilbo's greatest regrets was that he'd never told Thorin. Never had had the chance to. It wasn't until after the King Under the Mountain had died, and Bilbo was overtaken with sorrow that he'd finally said it out loud- _"Thorin, no no no, Thorin, please, no, I love you, please-"_ He'd been too caught up in the moment at that time to really realize what he was saying, and what he was doing, but he'd clutched the man's face in his hands and pressed a tear-soaked kiss to his lips, the first and last he'd ever get to have. He had sat there, head pressed against Thorin's chest as he wept, waiting to hear a heartbeat that wouldn't ever come.

From there on, it was a blur. Gandalf had come, had given him a knowing gaze, reading Bilbo's red face and bloodshot eyes for what they so clearly were. The Hobbit was weak and empty inside, too afraid to look at the body of his could-have-been lover for fear that he would be overcome with another fit. Shortly thereafter came the arrival of The Company one by one- sans Kili and Fili, he could somewhat make out in the haze of his memory, not that he cared to relive it too terribly often- and they bowed to their fallen king, tears falling from each and every dwarf that laid eyes upon the site of Thorin Oakenshield, breathing no longer.

He couldn't stay for the funeral. Couldn't bear to watch Thorin be placed into the ground, couldn't bear to hear words of praise spoken about his life, couldn't bear happy legends and song and drink and any of the ridiculous customs of dwarven mourning, couldn't bear the absolute finalization of it all.

He couldn't bear to say goodbye.

So, he'd departed early. Balin was the only one that was supposed to know, aside from Gandalf, but of course the old dwarf had alerted the rest of The Company, and Bilbo had found himself choked up at the sight. These were his friends- friends that he had just spent over a year with, had laughed and cried with, had battled with. Friends that, thanks to him, now had a place to call home. Friends that, he was only just beginning to realize, he was going to have trouble living without.  
 _"Tea is at four, don't bother knocking."_ Back then, however long ago "then" was, he hadn't really had the faintest idea of just how empty he would feel once he was back in the home that he'd been so eager to return to for all those months. Every day, right around four- not that dwarves were known to be especially punctual- his heart would catch in his chest, skipping a beat as he shifted to point an ear towards the door, hoping for something, anything. But that thing, whatever it was, never came.  
Day by day, he attempted to return to normalcy. He tended to his garden, he worked to clean the thick layers of dust that had settled over his home in his absence. He dug the old Dwarvish books out from his study, planning on attempting to teach himself the language, another way of clinging onto the journey, still not able to let go. He pointedly ignored the acorn, stuffed in a small cloth bag and tucked away in the glory box, the thought of burying it in his garden far too akin to burying Thorin, and as such, he just couldn't bring himself to do it.  
People spoke of him in Hobbiton, and quite frequently, people would ask him about his adventure, but he would never tell them. His memories were his alone- his special safe places to escape to when he needed it most. This served to make people speak ill of him, speak that he'd fallen off of the wagon while he was gone, coming up with all sorts of wild tales as to why he'd be so secretive, for this was not the way of Hobbits- they were open creatures, always willing to share and gossip. Not Bilbo, though, not anymore.

One day, some time down the road, when he no longer sat on the edge of his seat in the hopes that a visitor would arrive, that precise thing happened.

It was late, already dinner had been eaten and gone and cleaned up after, and he was setting up for Supper. The sun had set over the hills more than an hour ago, and there was not much more than the fireplace and a few small candles keeping the Hobbit Hole warm and lit and comfortable. He had just settled down in his armchair, a Dwarvish book that Bilbo had yet to decipher the cover of spread out on his lap while his food simmered on the stove. He was getting cozy, slowly finding himself immersed in his studying of the runes, when all of the sudden, a knock came to the door. It pulled him away from his thoughts and caused his heart to rush the slightest bit, but he tried his best to keep from getting too excited.

A knock?

No, no, that wasn't possible.

He waited, not even noticing that he was holding his breath. Surely, if it was something important, they would knock again! Though he couldn't imagine who would possibly be knocking at this hour in The Shire. And yet, loud and clear, another knock, this time with just a slight bit more hesitancy than the one before it, as though the person at the door wasn't really sure if they were at the right place.

"I wonder who that could possibly be!" Bilbo said, setting his book open on the small table beside his chair, pages-down, before standing and scurrying off to the door.

What he saw (or rather, _who_ he saw) when he opened it, midway through greeting the visitor and instinctively wishing them a good evening, he could have never expected.

Thick, black hair, falling in a messy cascade past his shoulders. A beard of the same color, shorter than what was standard for his kind, but a bit longer than Bilbo remembered, secured just below his chin (for it didn't go too much beyond that point) with a single silver bead. A sharp, long nose, placed right above a mouth that was all too familiar, though the soft and slightly upturned positioning of it was not. Those cool blue eyes- Bilbo was unbelievably nauseous. There was no way, no _possible_ way that this could be happening. No way that he could be standing there before him. After all- the dead did not come back to life.

"I understand that tea was at four," the dark-haired dwarf began, that voice a calm low rumble that send a shockwave of pain straight to Bilbo's chest. "but I got lost. Can I come in?"

Everything went dark.

He awoke to the sound of his own name, head absolutely aching- he must have hit it, because the pain was centralized in one very particular spot on the back of his skull.  
" _Bilbo,_ " the voice urged, and he opened his eyes to see none other than Thorin Oakenshield leaning over him, face riddled with worry. "Bilbo, are you alright?"

No. No, he was not alright. There was a very intense pain on the back of his head, he tasted bile, and he was suddenly very short of breath. He was staring at the ceiling, too, when the last he'd remembered he'd been standing with his hand on the doorknob. It felt as though something was crushing his chest, it felt as though his heart was going to explode. He found himself scrambling away, back pressed against the wall furthest from the phantom while still keeping it within eyesight, tears welling up in his eyes and he _yelled_ , he begged and pleaded nonsensical words to whatever forces were out there that could possibly be listening, because there was no way that this was happening to him.  
"What sort of cruel trickery is this!?" He cried out, pointing a finger at Thorin before letting out a sob and pulling the hand back quickly to cover his mouth, breathing hurried and hard. "You- you can't be there, you _can't_. I saw you- I saw you _die_. You had no heartbeat, you were _dead_." His body was shaking, trembling with how much he was struggling to keep himself from crying.  
Thorin's expression softened somewhat, and he slowly moved to close the space between himself and Bilbo, cautiously, just as receptive of the feelings of those around him as he always had been. Hesitantly, he placed a hand on Bilbo's leg, making his grip press firmer when Bilbo made an attempt to pull away.  
"Master Burglar," he began, voice soft and careful as he pointedly stared the halfling in the eyes. "I cannot imagine the sort of pain all of this has put you through. It was never my intention- I asked them to tell you-"  
"Tell me?" Bilbo managed, incredulous, a small hiccup in the attempts to cover up another sob. "Tell me _what_?" Another pained sound. He opened his mouth to speak some more, but not before he was interrupted by Thorin raising a hand to calm him.  
"Please, just let me speak for a moment." He paused, waiting for Bilbo to settle somewhat, and it didn't come, but the halfling indicated that he was going to stand down momentarily. "I did not die. I was near mortally wounded, that much is true. But I merely fell into a space that was betwixt life and death- I remained there for a few days, until just before you departed for home. You were meant to know."

The rest of this conversation was something of a haze, much like the time since Thorin's (apparently, not) death had been. The gist of it was that, for a while, Thorin had been dancing along the line of the worlds of the living and the dead. He was weak, extremely wounded, and was unable to go and find Bilbo to tell him. No one else would bring Bilbo _to_ him, which had left Thorin worrying for the worst, despite constant assurances that he was alright.  
"They did not want to tell you, for fear that I may actually pass. It was so unclear as to what my fate was, that they worried that getting your hopes up would break you in the case that death came upon me."

"Break me?" A bewildered and offended look came across Bilbo's tear-streaked face, and he shook his head, letting out a disbelieving scoff. "I've _been_ broken, Thorin. I have sat here, in this house, alone, and I have _mourned_ you." He buried his face into his hands once again, tucking his knees up to his chest and attempting to curl himself up into his smallest possible form- quite small, being a Hobbit. "I mourned you," he repeated, letting out another soft sob as the pain began to well up within him once more. "I've mourned the loss of you every single day, for I don't even _know_ how long." Anger, then, as he looked up, pointing an accusatory finger at the dwarf king. "A simple _letter_ would have sufficed, letting me know you were alright! Where are your manners, showing up at my door out of nowhere, after letting me believe that you were dead all this time? Is a _letter_ so hard!?" He was standing, now, glaring down at Thorin with his little hands clenched into fists.

The tiniest of smiles passed onto the dark-haired man's face, and he tilted his head down so as to hide the expression. He did not rise to his feet, keeping his position below Bilbo pointedly. This was a large gesture for a dwarf, naturally stubborn, but an even larger one for a _king_. Placing Bilbo above him, at this moment in time, showed his sincerity.  
"Forgive me, Master Baggins." He began, turning his head upwards to look into Bilbo's eyes, concern riddled in his own. None of this went unnoticed by the Hobbit, however, and it wasn't long before his shoulders were slumping and his hands were beginning to unclench. "It was never my intention to betray you. I would never. and had I known that you had been living in such a state-"

"Please, stop talking. Just stop talking, this instant." Bilbo interrupted suddenly, falling to his knees and grabbing the fur of Thorin's collar to yank him into a hug, squeezing as tightly as he could muster, as if he were afraid that if he were to lessen his grip the slightest bit, Thorin would vanish from his life once again. The hug was eagerly reciprocated, and Thorin buried his nose into the soft curls of Bilbo's hair, whispering words that Bilbo could not understand (yet) in Dwarvish as he rubbed small circles into the Hobbit's shoulders with his fingertips.

If Bilbo could spend the rest of eternity like this, in Thorin's arms, he would be happy. Whether it be as lovers or friends, it did not matter- Thorin was there, with him, firm and real and most definitely not dead. He never wanted to move from this embrace, fear of the emptiness that would was over him if that were to happen.  
Which was probably why, when Thorin began to move away, Bilbo was quick to protest. The sounds he was making, however, were quickly stifled, eaten by Thorin's rough, chapped lips pressed to his own.

Wait. Wait- this absolutely _had_ to be a dream, now, he groaned internally. There was no way Thorin had actually just kissed him- why would he? Bilbo had never spoken of his affections, and Thorin had been gone from consciousness when he had kissed him whilst in the grips of agony on top of the waterfall- there was no way for him to know of the feelings Bilbo harbored for him.

"I seem to recall you doing the same to me- I remember the feeling, could vaguely hear you crying. If my thoughts are misplaced- if I am remembering incorrectly, I apologi-" He was interrupted again, twice now by Bilbo Baggins in just a few moments, as their lips were pushed together again. Bilbo threaded his hands into Thorin's hair, trying desperately to hold him in place. He parted his lips slightly, and the dwarf eagerly responded, deepening the kiss with fervor.  
They continued like this for a few moments, completely forgetting the fact that the door was wide open, and that anyone could walk in at any time if they pleased. That was, until a gust of wind blasted through it, sending leaves bursting into the entryway and surprising Bilbo so much that he jumped, flailed, and accidentally jabbed his hand square into Thorin's jaw, causing the man to bite his own lip. Though it didn't hurt much, he found himself worrying it through his teeth gently, tasting blood.  
"Oh! Oh, dear me, I'm sorry, I'm so terribly sorry! Please, let me go get a damp cloth, we'll clean you up-" He began to stand, only to be yanked down as Thorin lay back on the floor, and suddenly, Bilbo was atop Thorin, and the king was smiling, the first real smile he had seen on Thorin since Erebor.  
"Fret not, Halfling," He teased with the pet name, reaching up to gently push his fingers through the once-burglar's hair again. "All I ask in apology is a warm meal, and a comfortable place to rest my head for the night."  
Bilbo 'tsk-tsk-tsk'd' firmly, shaking his head and sitting up slightly, propping himself with his arms on either side of Thorin's head. "You will not be staying for the night alone, you'll be staying for much longer. And, unfortunately, I only have one bedroom- the rest are filthy. You'll just have to share with me."  
"That would be preferable." Thorin replied, pulling Bilbo down gently by his shirt into another soft kiss, one that was returned happily. While the halfling wasn't sure what they were, exactly, at this point, he didn't care. They could cross that bridge later- right then, in that moment, all that mattered was that Thorin, King Under the Mountain, was alive and well. Also importantly, was that he was alive and well, in Bag End, with Bilbo.

It was a short while later, before Bilbo remembered that he still had food on the stove, and he was hurriedly getting up and shuffling through the halls, making his way to the kitchen and mumbling about how he could possibly have forgotten something so important, damn those dwarves and their schemes, those sorts of things. Thorin was left to laugh to himself, standing and- finally- closing the front door before following Bilbo to the kitchen.

**Author's Note:**

> I fudged with some of the details of what actually happens in the story for this fic, obviously, namely Thorin's funeral and whether or not Bilbo was there. After all, if Bilbo had been at the funeral, he would have known for absolute certain that Thorin had died! 
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed this fic. If you did, let me know!


End file.
